Concerto in blue
by Roux Barcelone
Summary: ONE-SHOT and spin-off of my story Last Waltz. MASSIVE SPOILER ALERT. You have been warned. Sometimes we are kept awake at night, mourning those that have gone before us. This is the time when we need something or someone to soothe our pain. R


WARNING: This one-shot is not betaed and full of spoilers. We are at least 20 chapters ahead of where Last Waltz stopped with the last chapter. Just for the record. Proceed at your own risk.

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**-*Concerto in blue*-**

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„Footfalls echo in the memory  
Down the passage we did not take  
Towards the door we never opened,  
Into the rose garden."  
_  
T.S. Eliot_

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Dracula had known she would be playing again. It was well past two in the morning that he found himself outside of his room listening intently. Again. The little jewel box that had been Claude Dumont's house, built as a summer home away from the city decades ago, carried the sound excellently. A grand piano on every level of a house, constructed to make music in, had been the maestro's wish and three big name instruments had fulfilled this as well as a small Fazioli, tucked away in one of the upper rooms below the roof. A mansion, made to compose everywhere to never lose inspiration but to get lost in it instead. The home the musician of the hour had grown up in.

Twisting and turning the notes she took liberties with the piece, yet she was always coming back to the main theme just like she had come back to this house with its high windows, the picturesque rose garden and the round staircase. With its memories, that met her at every corner and the Count sometimes thought that they must suffocate her, strangle that white neck, twist the spine that she usually held regally erect. No wonder she played during the dark hours of the night where no one would judge nor see if insomnia bent the proud posture. This time it was bent in mourning.  
On the brink of the first anniversary of her grandfather's death Cassandra Woods, née Graham, played a contemporary piece and though he was two floors above her he knew exactly what kind of picture she would portray; with the silk dressing gown, the dark grey pashmina that she liked to wrap herself in, lying next to her in a heap on the piano bench. Having seen her in a similar style after they had just met the vampire noted the few differences which the two images presented in his mind. While the years since they had first been introduced had not been kind to her soul they had been with her looks. Only the hair she kept short nowadays, the thick tresses curling right above her shoulders which made her appear softer-an abysmal deception.

He could smell her tears from here. Silent they would be, softly making their way down her face similar to the lazy caress of a lover's fingertips. Few in numbers, for the lady at the Bösendorfer was not in the habit to shed excess tears. Unexpected, that she had chosen this instrument, for she preferred the Steinway. Then he remembered that Dumont had favoured this grand piano above the others. The granddaughter had not forgotten, paying homage in her own way.

A movement caught his attention for a moment but it was just a door opening and closing mutely while the inhabitant of the room behind stepped into the hallway opposite of Dracula and sought his own place at the bannister to listen to the concert below. The eyes of the two men met only briefly then both vampire and human were lost in the music once more.  
Domenico Baldone had arrived a week ago and had completed the set of three that Cassandra would tolerate around her while she prepared the undertakings affiliated with the anniversary of Dumont's death with the help of her staff. Family, companions, and former orchestra members-they all wanted to come and honour their friend and maestro and in a few hours the clean cut French estate would be swamped with people. However they would only be presented with the polished surface of the mistress of the house, none of them would be allowed to see the real grief behind. At least he and Baldone had been permitted to eavesdrop.  
Two nights ago the Signore had chosen the Bösendorfer at the ground floor for himself, after the sound of the Steinway had woken him at midnight and Dracula had been treated to a concerto grosso of extraordinaire performance-even more so when the Bechstein had joined the two others. But tonight the Italian did not dare to join his former student. Too intimate was the execution of the piece, too palpable the aura of a mourning heart. This time the cry for comfort was not directed to her friends, no matter how confident. At this hour the yearning went deeper and could not be answered by those unrelated in blood.

But suddenly it was answered by the Bechstein at the top floor and for a moment the Count was nonplussed. The player would have had to pass his spot to get there and his senses had not picked anybody up. Either she had gotten better at sneaking around and the Gods help them all if she had-or she had sensed what her sister required much earlier than any of the men and had planned accordingly. Probably the latter for the two females were bound together like the two sides of a butterfly's wing. One subdued in colours but at a closer look nevertheless fascinating with an elaborate pattern that only the alert observer was able to make out, the other so powerfully and spectacularly designed that the eyes of even the most absentminded beholder would be caught.

Stephanie Alexandra had always been beautiful-now at eighteen she was terrifyingly gorgeous. Dracula, who had seen his share of magnificent women over the centuries, knew that there had been no one like her before-nor would there be one after her. He had to admit a needling curiosity for how she would be enhanced after she became one of his kind. No doubt the world would fall if she wished so and she would laugh at it, probably the same way, she now laughed into the faces of the model agencies who futilely tried to make her work for them. But that was still a long way off.  
For now the chosen bride of his second in command had turned the tables around on her sister. Where usually Cassandra answered to the younger woman's distress this time it was Stephanie who did the soothing and to the Count's surprise it was readily accepted. Four hands played the same theme and as one responded to the other and the notes wrapped around their siblings to dance through the dark house and grace the ears of the listeners a subtle shift could be noticed in the air. Cassandra's performance lost some of its sharpness which the grief governing her fingers had produced. Gradually her execution of the piece softened. The musician's two styles, similar yet different in profound details, seemed to take each other by the hand to find themselves in a warm embrace and once more the atmosphere shifted in a sense that the vampire would never be able to explain. Suddenly he knew that there were others wide awake gathering their instruments to play alongside their sister in need and it was as if he felt more than heard Amelia's violin accompany the pianos, followed by the flute and the guitar of Raphaela and Theresa. Grace's cello joined last and for a moment a cacophony of the reigning theme rang through his head. The call of distress had been answered.

It was over as soon as it had begun and he only heard the sound of the two grands as he glanced at Baldone to see if the man had noticed the same thing he had. It did not appear that way and yet again Dracula was forced to notice how much bound him to this family, to these sisters. To the woman at the Bösendorfer.

Their history was one of blood and tears, of crime and punishment even of murder. Of stolen nights and betrayal but also of dances, laughter and the familiarity that came with being in Cassandra's presence. Cassandra, his confidant, Stephanie the future goddess of his kin. The others all involved in some way. Pushed by the music, the memories of the last years sped through his mind from when they had met up to this moment and he knew that though he did not share a bed with any of the Graham sisters they were closer to him than any of his lovers were or had ever been. The thought was strangely comforting.

Baldone opposite him shifted and with a short nod in his direction the Italian went back to his room. The music of the Bechstein had stopped and like at the very beginning it was only the woman on the ground floor who played, though now in much more relieved fashion. The whispers of small steps behind him told the Count that Stephanie was also on her way to bed. Her work for tonight was done; all she could do was ease the pain for she knew very well that any attempts to lure Cassandra to get some sleep would be unsuccessful against the woman's insomnia.

The main piano would continue to play on its own until the other instruments would answer again.

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I needed to get this out of my mind-I'm drained now. I know it doesn't make sense. Frankly my dears…

Inspiration: Maksim Mrvica's _"Poseidon's Tale"._ Link on my profile as ususal. And no, I have no idea if or when an update for Last Waltz will come.

Oh and: Happy belated birthday Van Helsing movie. Congratulations on being a decade old.


End file.
